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Monday, May 21, 2012

Bitches Be Wearing Wigs - Hampton Court

So I'm sure you're all very curious about why Kirsten and I decided to visit London. Someone was demonstrating a strong obsession love for the show the Tudors so I suggested a pilgrimage. No Tudor pilgrimage would be complete without a trip to Hampton Court where the crazy courtier life of HVIII took place.

Of course you don't show up for Henry's court looking like a shlub. That wouldn't get you through the gates. Kirsten insisted that only the straightest loveliest hair would do for Henry. I figured Henry, being dead and all, would just appreciate a woman who has, you know, skin. At first we were sure that the fact that they didn't bathe much in the 16th century would give us an edge. But then Kirsten quickly pointed out that our hair may not gain us favour with the king because the women of the those days covered their greasy hair with wigs and everyone smelled, so really, what's the difference? We soldiered on.

A view of the outside of the royal apartments

Hampton Court is gorgeous. We considered taking the boat in from London and arriving as they would have nearly 500 years ago but between the 3 hours it took (we are not early morning risers) and the damp chilly weather, it wasn't to be. It's about 30 minutes away and was a favourite of Hank because it was far enough from the various diseases raging through London.

This is another castle where the exhibits are beautifully and brilliantly set up to give you a slice of life - rather than to overwhelm you with detail.

Hampton Court was originally built by Cardinal Wolsey as a place to host the obviously pious European leaders. I think the wine fountain in the front court must have had deep religious experience. Anyway, Henry wasn't about to let this twit have a better house - so he took it. I will let you wonder what became of Wolsey's head a few years later when he failed to help Henry get a divorce from Catherine of Aragon.

We couldn't resist starting with Henry's apartments, which were set up for his wedding to his final wife Katherine Parr. She was the luckiest of them all because he died before she could displease him. Henry did walk by us and even spoke to us. But no proposal. You know it was his wedding day. Would have been a bit rude.

A few enjoyed the wet weather. The gardens were lovely but a little damp for exploration.

From Henry's apartment we toured the apartments of Mary II. Instead of setting up these rooms with traditional furniture of the time, there was a gorgeous art exhibit called The Wild, The Beautiful and The Damned, which traced the debaucheries of Charles II court through paintings featuring his mistresses. Naughty bunch and I quite approve. I'd rather a King who slept around than one that murdered tens of thousands for their religious views.

All in all, Charles had 14 children with his various mistresses. None with his wife. So the crown goes to... James II, his brother, who brought Catholicism back and the threat of a male Catholic heir. And so then the glorious revolution thanks to his scheming Protestant children. All this being said... let's hear it for the separation of church and state.

The costumed characters in this area included the artist Peter Lely and Charles' mistress Barbara Villiers. Next thing you know, Kirsten and I are helping Barbara undress and redress for the sitting of a portrait and I'm sitting on the floor at Barbara's feet as Peter prepares to paint her as the Roman god, Diana the huntress... and I am to be part of the portrait as Minerva and was instructed to "look up at her in hopeful admiration". Sadly, I don't have a picture to share.

I won't take you through all the apartments, but they taught so much about the history of the monarchy and the misery of court life for everyone. Behind the merriment was a hint of indentured servitude, the threat of losing your life over gossip and accusation. If you think about it, the most honoured position was to be the dude in charge of the privy chamber. "May I wipe your behind sir?" For the royals, there was less privacy than now and greater chance of death.

This place is probably crawling with ghosts at night.

One effectively creepy moment involved walking down an empty staircase, no one else is around us, we could hear the voice of young child whispering the fate of each of Henry's wives: "Divorced. Beheaded. Died. Divorced. Beheaded. Survived." Ok, well that's ingrained in the memory. And all memorialized on Kirsten's new mug "The Vanishing Heads of the wives of Henry VIII".